If It Drives (Market Garden, #7)(2)

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Cal asked.

“Yes.” James faced him and smiled, but it was thin lipped and didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m fine.”

Cal nodded silently. He closed the door after James had stepped away from the car, and waited.

James looked up at his house, and Cal watched him, wondering what was going through the man’s head as he stared at his massive, empty house and its closed front door. His gaze was distant. Gravel crunched and his dress shoes creaked softly as he rocked back and forth from his heels to the balls of his feet.

Again, Cal fought the urge to put his arms around James and comfort him. Something was off, and whatever it was, Cal desperately wanted to fix it. Change it. Help him somehow. Hell, just hold him the way he’d imagined doing so many times.

Cal tried to force that thought out of his mind. Maybe that was one fantasy that needed to stop. Imagining himself having sex with a man who was out of his league was one thing, but imagining himself consoling someone who was standing right there, looking that lost and that vulnerable . . . it wouldn’t take much for the line between fantasy and reality to blur. And if that line did blur, he’d probably realise it one awkward hug too late.

Eyes still fixed on the house, James broke the silence. “Would you like to come in for a drink?”

Cal’s heart skipped. Really? This night just kept getting stranger.

“A drink?”

James turned his head, and a weak smile appeared on his lips. “Yes. A drink.”

“I . . .” Shouldn’t. No way. Cal, don’t . . . “I should park the car.”

“Just leave it outside the door.” James fiddled his keys from his pocket. “Not like I’m expecting visitors.”

Cal glanced up at the overcast sky, but London weather was all over the place, and though it didn’t look like rain, it might very well rain tonight. He really didn’t want to leave the car out in case the weather turned nasty, and putting it away would give him a moment to come to his senses and—

“Don’t worry about the car,” James said quietly.

“All right.” Bad idea. Very bad idea. But Cal took off his cap and placed it on the driver’s seat, then killed the engine and locked the doors. Heart racing, he followed his boss through the front door and into the enormous living room.

James always left several lights on when he headed into the city, which made the house less empty and forlorn, but that illusion didn’t last for very long.

“I could put on the fire.” James sounded undecided, certainly not quite there.

“If you like, sir.”

“I love the flickering. Do you?” He looked at Cal, hazel eyes brownish in the warm light.

Cal had never lived anywhere that had a live fireplace; they seemed unnecessary and inefficient. The house wasn’t cold, but maybe James found it comforting. Cal nodded. “I do, sir.”

“Good.” James took off his jacket, walked over to the fireplace and crouched down to start the fire with paper and kindling. Cal found himself staring at the man’s fine white shirt pulled taut over his body, and the small, trim arse just hovering over the heel of his polished black shoes.

Snap out of it, Cal. You shouldn’t even be here.

This was a mistake. It wasn’t a good idea to do social time, but now that he was here, he couldn’t really bow out without being impolite. He’d have to make up some kind of excuse to vanish into the tiny cottage behind the house. The living quarters were one of the main perks of the job, even if they seemed a little too close tonight.

“What are you drinking, Callum? Wine?”

Wine, whatever. He’d drink what the boss was drinking, but not much. Just enough to be sociable. “Yes, sir.”

“I’ll grab a couple of bottles from the wine cellar.”

“Actually, I—” His last-ditch attempt to bail and get the f*ck out of there halted when James looked into his eyes again. Cal swallowed. “Uh, I can get the wine.”

“Are you sure?”

No. God, what am I doing? But something was wrong, and Cal couldn’t walk away from James and just leave him here with whatever was on his mind, and if company and a glass of wine were what he needed, then maybe Cal could give him that much. “I’m sure. Any, um, preference?”

James smiled, and some tension seemed to melt out of his shoulders. “It’s downstairs. Past the game room, second door on the left. Get us a couple bottles of red, if you would? The French ones are all favourites. Pick whatever you like.”

“Sure.” Cal followed James’s instructions, and peered at the extensive collection of bottles. Pick whatever you like? Some of those bottles were five hundred a pop. Others just fifty or so. Did it make a difference if he went for the cheap ones or the expensive ones? He chose blindly, picking out two bottles of French reds.

He returned with the bottles, one in each hand, and the fire was flickering, James standing back.

Cal swallowed. “Should I, um . . .” He nodded towards the kitchen as he set the bottles on the coffee table. “Get a couple of glasses, sir?”

For the first time all evening, James smiled. Not broadly, but genuinely, as if the fire had warmed something in him during Cal’s brief absence.

“You don’t have to call me ‘sir’ anymore tonight. James is fine.”